Sam is a Three Letter Word
by i tripped on the sun again
Summary: Another incident with the demon blood leaves Sam back in the panic room- but this time, he isn't panicking. And maybe there's something wrong with that. Scratch that- something's definitely wrong.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: I like being mean to Sam (:}) and the whole demon blood fiasco is a perfect opportunity. Spoilers for season(s) 4 &5\. I decided that while waiting for season 11 to return I'd write something set a lot earlier, so here is what I produced from my brain that only honestly functions properly about ten percent of the time. The other 90% is embarrassing waffling and listening to Bon Jovi. I have no shame. None.**

 **Disclaimer: I don't own the boys, Supernatural, or even a dog that resembles a hellhound. No, he's a dachshund, and a lot less intimidating. And I'm pretty sure hellhounds don't pee on the Christmas tree when it's put up.**

He didn't remember what he had done to be locked in the panic room again. Demon blood, he assumed- but memory was so fleeting that he couldn't grasp one and latch onto it like he probably could have done easily the day before.

Or maybe it was two days.

He didn't remember.

Sam sighed, legs curling up to his chest while two things happened: he leaned his head back on the cool metal of the makeshift asylum, and felt the fever creep up his arms and neck, burning, ravaging his throat. It broke a sweat on his forehead that he didn't wipe off, because he was too tired. He was so tired, in fact, that even blinking felt like a thousand worlds crashing down onto his eyes, and breathing sent molten tendrils of fiery pain through his lungs. They strung themselves around his heart and squeezed, hard, every time he coughed.

So he didn't cough.

Didn't make a sound, actually, and almost felt enough emotion to be proud of that. This time there was no yelling for Dean, no angry screaming at his hallucinations because what they told him hurt and hurt bad, no nothing.

Nothing at all.

Just **silence.**

 _Maybe,_ he thought, frown trembling on his mouth before dissolving at the effort. _Maybe the quiet is louder._

He stopped thinking for a moment, listened to the sound of no sound and swallowed. The fan above his head sliced the air methodically, noise so subtle it may as well not have been there. The floor strained out in front of him, cold and gray. The bed in the middle of the room wouldn't creak unless he sat on it.

Sam blinked through the red haze.

Yeah. The silence was definitely louder, and two hours later, Dean had the same thought.

He paused, sloshing Jack Daniels around in his bottle briefly, eyes following the golden alcohol stream up the glass and then back down again, catching the light of the lamp next to him and taking it with it down to the bottom. Bobby looked at him from the desk, a second glance warranted when Dean only narrowed his eyes instead of taking a swig or saying something he thought might lighten whatever mood this had become.

Correction- _they_ had become.

"What, Dean?" Bobby asked, voice coated carefully with gruff curiosity. After a moment, Dean shook his head.

"I don't know." he answered truthfully, and sat up, elbows on his knees, drink between them, too. He sloshed it again and bit his lip.

 _What, Dean?_

What, Dean, indeed.

"I'm gonna check on Sam." he whispered to the floor, realizing that was what had made him stop. It was the lack of noise that had been going on for far too long, the eerie calm that permeated throughout the house and shot a shiver up his spine.

Sam.

"Again?"

He looked up- no, glared up, at Bobby, about to snap, yes, again, and I'll check on him as many damn times as I see fit, because that _isn't_ a monster, it's Sammy, and he wouldn't hurt anyone, _ever._

Dean took a deep breath.

 _Well, save for demons._

 _And angels._

Bobby kept looking at him, eyes hooded halfway by his raggety baseball cap, left hand still curved around a newspaper.

 _Witches._

 _Wendigos._

 _Ghosts._

 _People, sometimes._

 _And-_

Dean snapped back to reality, chastising himself because it wasn't Sam's fault.

Because there was a difference between Sam and Sammy, a big gaping hole between lethal hunter and little brother.

 _Sammy_ had soft eyes and a sad smile and hair that Dean liked to tease him for. _Sammy_ was awkward in all the wrong places, and called Dean a jerk and bought embarrassing drinks at restaurants like vanilla lattes, and complained about the music in the Impala when he really didn't mind so much and only said he did for the banter that held them together.

 _Sam_ kept a knife in his jacket since no one was to be trusted, set his eyes to be cold and hard and wore a smile that was forced, hair that was too straight and kempt. _Sam_ wasn't all that awkward, because when he was _Sam_ he was usually stabbing or shooting something. _Sam_ didn't call Dean a jerk, and drank water.

But he still complained about the music.

"Dean?" Bobby prompted, head leaning forward a bit. Dean forgot whatever snide retort he'd almost made, and nodded.

"I'm gonna go check on Sammy." he repeated. Except he wasn't saying the same thing.

"Yeah, I got that. But you just looked in on him a couple of hours ago. Isn't the point of this whole isolation thing to be sure your brother's isolated?"

The words didn't make it through his skull, like the sheet of bone was trying to block it out because it would only confirm that yes, Sam was locked up, yes, it was happening again, and yes, it would be another agonizingly long day and a half until Sam could come out.

But he had this feeling something wasn't right in his gut, and Dad always told him to go with his gut when his brain wouldn't work and his heart couldn't.

Something was wrong.

More than usual.

Dean didn't answer Bobby.

Dean stood up.

Put his unfinished beer on the table near the chair, not bothering to swipe away the mess of papers accumulated there.

Dean turned around.

Dean went to _Sammy._


	2. Chapter 2

**Sorry for the long interim between updates, but I've been swamped with a crap ton of, well, crap lately, and haven't found a ton of time to write. Also, this installment if unfortunately short, but the next one will hopefully be quite a bit longer.**

Bobby ended up following him into the basement, the trek down the still stairs only magnifying the sound of no sound that positively emanated from the panic room. Which was a little ironic, because right now, the fact that the panic room wasn't being used for panicking was making Dean panic.

And that? Well, that made his head spin.

"Wait here for a second." he said to Bobby, leaving him at the edge of the wooden steps as he took a few of his own forward toward the door that had always seemed larger than it needed to be. He paced himself for six seconds before knocking. "Sammy? You alright in there?"

No response.

"Sam?" he tried again, with two more raps that were each slightly more forceful than the last.

"Whaddaya think's the matter?" Bobby asked from behind him. He shook his head.

"I don't know, but something's definitely rotten in Denmark."

Impatient with knocking, he slid open the slot in the door that allowed a glance into the small space, looking as far in each direction as he could. "Sam? _Sammy!"_

What disturbed him was that Sam was nowhere in his line of vision- when he most certainly should have been.

"Screw this, I'm going in there." he decided, unlatching the heavy lock.

"Dean-"

"Save it, Bobby!" he growled, making haste in flipping over steel straps and loops. Without hesitation, he swung the door open with a distinct _whooshing_ noise.

Then Sam spilled out onto his feet, apparently having been right up against the door, which would explain why Dean hadn't been able to see him.

"Oh, _hell."_ Bobby muttered gruffly, before what was so obviously wrong had registered in Dean's mind. Without realizing it, he found himself on his knees next to his brother, who was a sickly pale color and didn't appear to be breathing properly.

Actually, he didn't appear to be breathing at all.

Dean searched wildly for a sign of life, but there was no rise and fall of Sam's chest, no warm air from his nose or mouth that would indicate he was successfully drawing in and letting out oxygen.

Fearfully, Dean sunk two fingers onto Sam's carotid artery, and stopped breathing himself.

Because he couldn't find a pulse, and Dean could always find a pulse. The only time he couldn't….

Was when there wasn't one to find.


	3. Chapter 3

**So... I'm not dead? I am really super duper sorry for the months I made you guys wait- life's been a bitch. But thank you for reading, seriously. I will try not to leave you hanging for so long again :)**

"Dammit, Cas!" Dean shouted, pounding a fist against the wall. "Where the hell are you?"

He had taken to pacing, what with Bobby having gotten Sam- or more terrifyingly, Sam's body- over to the couch near the basement stairs, with nothing to do but yell at the ceiling and hope someone sent him an angel.

"Dean." came a familiar voice behind him, and he whirled back, tempted to punch Castiel in the face for not being there sooner.

"Where do you think you've been?" he snarled, not prepared to accept any answer. Castiel looked at him calmly.

"There was heavenly business to attend."

Dean snorted, unimpressed, then stepped aside to reveal Sam, who was still in the exact same position they'd left him. Bobby was standing over him, brow creased with worry. Castiel's expression morphed in half a second flat, from determined neutrality to concern.

"What happened?"

"He was in the panic room- demon blood, again- and we hadn't heard anything for a while- Cas?" he demanded when the angel disappeared in front of him. He moved again to see him above Sam, a hand touching one of his temples. He continued, "So we got him out, but he- he's not...I mean, it's like he's dead."

Castiel placed a hand on Sam's shoulder next, and outstretched his fingers, a glowing orange flaring up beneath them. He stood like that for a long moment, eyes closed. Longer than he should have, Dean guessed.

When they opened again, and his hand was removed, they told Dean something he didn't want to hear, before Castiel had even said anything.

"Dean-"

"He's not." Dean argued, refusing to believe it. "He's not, Cas, this is some kind of witchy thing, or demon thing, or Lucifer thing. He's not actually-"

"No, he isn't." Castiel said quietly, putting his hands in his pockets thoughtfully. "Physically- yes, he's by all means dead. But…"

"But what!"

Castiel shot him a glare, "But spiritually, he's still alive. His soul is still there. If he were truly dead, it would have traversed to heaven or hell by now."

Bobby looked between them. "So what's that supposed to mean?"

"I don't know." Castiel admitted, casting a glance back at Sam's unmoving form. Dean did the same, and noticed how much it looked like Sam was just asleep. It was a lot scarier when they had no idea what they were dealing with.

"I can't think of anything-" Castiel began, about to look away, but his eyes suddenly flashed shock and he kept them glued on Sam. Dean took a step back when he saw it, and Bobby muttered some curse under his breath.

Sam was in a sitting position- one none of them had maneuvered into- with his eyes open. Instead of the warm brown Dean was accustomed to, his irises had flamed into a molten orange, like the surface of the sun decided to test his little brother's pupils as a possible apartment. He was still as stone, and there was something unsettling in how he didn't blink, not once.

"I..." Sam began, in a voice that most certainly was not his. It was deep, and it echoed, like a bad sci-fi movie effect.

"Who the hell are you?" Dean demanded, clenching and unclenching his fist. Sam's head turned to him, and smiled. Dean had always thought Sam's smile was reassuring, and if he wanted to be a real girl about it, something special, but now it only looked like twisted skin and lies.

"The question...Dean Winchester...is not, who am I. It is...who am I not?"


End file.
